The Devil Himself
by OnTheSideOfTheAngels
Summary: A pearsonal account of a captive of The Devil Himself... Jim Moriarty and all the people she meets on the way. Who knew that a person could have so many sides, whether they be on the side of the angels or not.
1. The Devil Himself

His hair was as black as midnight and slicked back with gel, not one piece sticking out-of-place. The blinding light from the bulbs above was bouncing off his luscious locks.

His eyes, the darkest shade of brown I have ever seen, glinted in the harsh light. Behind those eyes you could see wickedness and insanity that must plague him in everything he does and I almost felt sorry for the man who stood before me.

His smile was more of a smirk, but wicked in its entirety. The corners of his mouth were turned up ever so slightly as if he was trying to hide his true joy in the current situation. His flawless white teeth where poking through the small gap between his two plump lips.

His suit, Westwood as he so proudly pointed out, was clean and sharp without any sign of wear. Each button almost glowing and his blood red tie perfectly placed in the centre of his crisp white shirt.

His stance was confident and intimidating, making up for his lack of height. His arms behind his back and his chest slightly puffed out as if he thought this made him any more of a man. His shoulders were relaxed showing how comfortable he was, most likely due to the amount of times he had to do this.

His voice was smooth and rich like dark chocolate yet still held a patronizing tone. As he spoke he sounded as if he was holding back a laugh, obviously he found the position I was in extremely funny. As to my current position I was tied to a chair with rope in an old leaking warehouse as he stood in front of me slightly pacing.

I had been kidnapped by the devil himself, taken by the world's only consulting criminal, Captured by Sherlock Holmes greatest enemy.

I was in the hands of the one thing Britain should be scared of...

James Moriarty


	2. On The Side Of The Angels

His hair was a glossy black and knotted together, sticking out in harsh curls, that reached just below his ears and brushed his pale forehead as he moved. Perfectly messy with glints of the blinding light behind him silhouetting his figure.

His eyes where a dangerous mix of icy blue and sharp grey and could peer into your mind and soul, they saw every detail and his stare could captivate you and mesmerise your being. Behind the cold, unnerving mix of colour was a blank expression, no emotion showing through, a true skill for any man to have.

His lips were pursed into a straight line, no hint of a smile present, which only made him seem more like a statue denied the pleasure of feelings. If this was how he got through life then I worry for his mind, his gift to the world, and how it would drive him into darkness.

His large, black overcoat hid his tight purple shirt, gripping to his every curve and exaggerating with his movements. His coat and shirt were accompanied by a pair of lightly creased suit trousers, most likely from the amount of running he had experienced that day, and a crisp suit jacket, that was protected from tear by the trench coat that drowned out his pale complexion. His whole outfit topped off with a navy scarf wrapped tightly around his neck and face, to protect him from the unforgiving London weather.

His stance was tall and confidence oozed out of him, he didn't need to puff out his chest as his lean body was intimidating enough. His arms were raised in a prayer like position and rested just under his pale pink lips and his legs were evenly spaced apart. He was obviously a leader or someone of importance as the whole room seemed to change on his actions, like they doted on his every need.

His voice was deep and raspy and poured off his tongue as quick as I thought humanly possible. His tone was slightly sarcastic and patronising as though he had explained the situation ten times before and was now explaining it to a group of toddlers, however the seriousness it held was terrifying like everything made sense to him and murders and killings were a normal everyday occurrence. His voice was rich but not sweet and invaded my ears like angels were singing, like I was being hypnotised by his voice alone.

As I sat on the wooden chair in Scotland Yard the situation hit me like a tonne of bricks. I was being deduced by an angel in human form. Examined by an emotionless genius. Being picked apart by London's savoir.

I was in the presence of the only thing that could save London from itself...

Sherlock Holmes

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	3. The Ex Army Doctor

His hair was a sandy blond with hints of dusted brown that parted over his forehead and stopped just before his ears. It framed his face perfectly and glinted slightly in the light.

His eyes were a soft hazel that lit up the room and took your breath away. Behind the glowing eyes kindness and trust where evident as well as small but gaping pits of doubt like he wasn't at all comfortable in the crowded room and that he must stay alert at all times for any surprise attack that might occur.

His lips were turned into a small yet heart warming smile that made you want smile back just as sweet. The lips were chapped and it looked like he bit his lip when stressed or under pressure, which he was doing now. His smile was contagious and now I smiling back too.

His large, protruding jumper reached down to his hips, was a dull beige in colour with a simple cross pattern and covered up his muscles that showed through as he moved to shake my hand. As well as the soft jumper he wore some dark faded out jeans and sturdy brown shoes, suitable for running, and a gleaming black jacket that was now placed neatly over a chair to the left of the man in front of me.

His stance was confident and proud but laidback with his legs slightly bent and his arms folded on his chest while he leaned back onto a table. He was one of those people you felt comfortable with no matter what the situation. However his shoulders were tensed and he looked ready to quickly dart out of the way if needed. He was and always will be solider at heart.

His voice was as sweet as sugar and held a cheery tone. It was also smooth and endearing and fitted him perfectly; I had first heard it as he was trying to soothe his frustrated partner and the whole room seemed to calm, me included. It held no sarcastic or patronising tone and was generally kind and honesty poured out of it.

I was in the presence of Britain's favourite confirmed bachelor. Small talking with the only person who kept his partner human. Laughing with the ex army doctor that still had a bite.

I was talking to the only person that could stand living with a highly functioning sociopath...

John Watson


	4. The British Government

His hair was an earthy red with small grey streaks and a receding hairline, the only giveaway of his age. It was neatly combed with no hair out of place and matched his smart demeanour. You could tell he was important.

His eyes were a withered grey, like a pond in the early dawn, and held a calculating stare. They filled with a raw power, like non I had ever seen before. Sparkling with expectation, they held my gaze as I got lost in his eyes; he was so like his brother.

His smile was a rare thing as his thin lips slightly turned upwards but he still kept a professional face, it was like getting a toddler to smile at the camera. His absent smile seldom crossed his pale pink lips and in its place a patronising smirk made its home, he was used to dealing with 5 year olds it seemed and never once did his white teeth make an appearance.

His suit was crisp and flawless, pinstriped and grey with his bleach white shirt peeping through under his navy blue tie. He was perfectly at home in the constricting 3 piece, so obviously he was used to wearing one. In his right hand he held an umbrella, an unusual accessory, with an auburn oak handle and sleek black material; clearly well looked after. His shoes were also well kept with no visible signs of wear and an incredible shade of darkest black.

His stance was confident and seethed importance: his shoulders back, head held high and weight slightly shifted to his left. He wasn't the tallest man yet his presence was known throughout the room and intimidating enough. Just from his posture I knew he was arrogant, with an impossibly straight back he was always looking down on people and this was the case with me. It was unnerving to say the least.

His voice was smooth and slow; it trickled off his tongue and was enough to bring me to my knees. It held a strong patronising tone behind it and yet was so sincere. He was a master manipulator, his tone darting between endearing and demanding in a second. He was so sure of himself, it was almost sickening and yet he drew me in like a moth to a flame.

I was listening to the voice of Sherlock Holmes' big brother, the man that kept Britain going, the gentleman as cold as ice.

I was discussing my escape with the British government himself...

Mycroft Holmes


	5. The Girl In The Morgue

Her hair was a soft brown colour with faded blond highlights. It was thrown into a fishtail plait that ended just below her shoulder. The intense light in the morgue bounced off her locks every time she moved and enhanced the tones of her seemingly normal hair.

Her eyes were a caramel brown and complimented her perfectly. They held a sensitive and gentle look, obviously one to forgive easily and yet there was a muted pain, she felt weak in his presence. As I watched the scene in front of me I could see her visibly shrink with every harsh word.

Her smile, which appeared after the confrontation, was adorable and friendly. The corners of her mouth slightly turned up and a sort of awkward air surrounded her. She was clearly good-natured and didn't let the past effect her mood. I sent a sympathetic smile her way in hope that it would comfort her.

Her clothing was simple: a red and white checked shirt, light blue jeans and a pair of plain brown shoes but what dominated her look the most was the long white lab coat that hung on her shoulders and covered up her skinny frame. Her clothing reflected her down-to-earth personality and even with such a minimal look her beauty was effortless and shone through.

Her stance was casual and yet held a nervous look. Her shoulders were relaxed and her arms folded in front of her with her feet close together and back slightly hunched foreword you could easily see she was insecure and yet she looked more confident out of his presence, before she was looking down as if hoping the floor would open and swallow her whole. Her company alone made me smile as she happily carried on with her day while contentedly chatting away to me.

Her voice was sweet, bubbly and supportive as if you could tell her anything. It was impossible to imagine that voice would ever hold any trace of disgust but I could imagine it holding sadness. She kept hesitating when speaking as if unsure of herself, like I would find her any less interesting. Poor girl, but I guess being love sick over the worlds only consulting detective could make you doubt yourself.

Here I was comforting the girl in the morgue, laughing with the person determined to break Sherlock's cold shell, chatting to the girl who would never know how special she really was.

I was arranging to have coffee with the socially awkward coroner...

Molly Hooper


	6. The Man In Charge

His hair a deep shimmering silver and dull white. The mixture, one that I shall never forget, showed his age and yet his perfectly styled hair said different. It was nothing new or unique but it suited him completely.

His eyes were a calming deep brown with flecks of shining gold drawing me in as he told his tale. Past all the deceiving joy and happiness, a clear show to keep others happy, a wall of concern, worry and doubt was clearly visible. The knowledge of his wife's affair was slowly eating him away. He was suffering in a cold, forbidding silence, something no one should experience.

His smile was warm and welcoming, bordering cheesy. He had obviously not done this in a while- a drink down the pub with a friend. His heart warming grin was enough for me to lose all focus and care of the completely drunk and idiotic people behind us. We were soon beaming at each other from over the table.

His slightly creased white shirt poked out from his dull, black suit jacket and you could just see the ends before it entered his matching suit trousers; we had just come straight from The New Scotland Yard both slightly drowsy from the day's events. His classy look made comfortable by the un-tucked shirt and lack of a tie.

His stance was comfortable and welcoming- he sat cross legged with open arms as we both laughed and chatted to our heart's content. He was a very approachable man at work and even more friendly when a way from the cramped offices. The laid back stance mirrored my own as we both enjoyed each other's company.

His voice was booming and filled with laughter as we both recounted some of our strangest tales. It was both cheery and calming- the voice of a true leader, sincere and honest with a slight undertone of sarcasm. It echoed off the walls as he, and I'm quite sure of this, giggled, his voice filling the room with joy. Any sign of pain he felt never showed through in his voice, no hesitations or strain.

I was laughing with the world's most patient Detective Inspector. Drinking with the only member of the police that could deal with the Holmes brothers. Chatting with the man who solves the sociopaths boredom with "exciting" cases.

I was in the pub with the man who somehow keeps the peace at Scotland Yard...

Gregory Lestrade


End file.
